speech, thou couldst not say him nay, seeing that he is thy father's friend, therefore do thou stand afar off and watch till thy cousin entereth, that thou mayest depart in peace; and should thy father at any time bid thee to the banquet, that thou mayest look upon the faces of his friends, peradventure thy cousin will seat herself over against thee, so that thou shalt be constrained to look upon her for cousins are very guileful then do thou straightway bid the servingman place the lamp betwixt her and thee, so shall the excessive brightness of the lamp dazzle thine eyes in such a manner that thou shalt not behold her, even though she had seated herself before thee purposely; if there be a vacant seat beside thee, do thou occupy both, so that she come not near; but if she hath already cunningly seated herself beside thee, do thou talk loudly and incessantly with the woman who may be next thee; and if thy cousin still torment thee, bid the serving-man bring thee wine, and in essaying to reach it do thou spill it all over her in such manner that she be compelled to retire in manifest discomfiture; thereby wilt thou of a verity overreach the cunning one; it may be that thy father will reprove thee for thine awkwardness-if he does so, apologise-but should thy cousin venture near thee again, repeat the dose-for after having been given twice or thrice thou wilt perceive it to be wonderfully efficacious; when thou art bid to journey with thy cousin into the country round about, do thou overset the vehicle by the wayside, so that she become wofully disfigured with the wet soil-then mayest thou look upon her without fear; provided always that she be peevish and fretful from the mishap-but if she laugh as if she recked it not, and there be no vexation in its tones, disregard the injunction, " see that ye fall not out by the way," and take the first opportunity of overturning the vehicle again—and if she still laugh, do thou it again-for, verily, the third time hath never known to fail; if she venture with thee into the country after being thrice frightened with prospective dislocations, truly she is more than woman: nevertheless there are times at which thou mayest go in and If the talk with thy cousin boldly. woman who hath the making of her garments, even her garments of silk, hath disappointed her grievously, and thou shouldst hear her pacing the apartment

hurriedly, and stamping ever and anon with her little foot as if sorely vexed, then mayest thou venture in and look upon her, but take heed that thou doest this cautiously, lest that she stop suddenly and looking upon thee with her eyes, laughing with exceeding great laughter-in which strait haste thee to shut thine eyes and the door, and depart quickly; if thy cousin hath a decayed tooth which causeth her to groan, because of the greatness of the pain thereof, thou mayest look upon her at such time without fear-but even then 'twere better that thou proceeded circumspectly, lest that the artful one and thou art forced to acknowledge in thy tribulation it was a bite devised most cunninglyfor cousins are exceedingly guileful; and if thy cousin hath been to a neighbour's house in the season of festivity which is called Christmas, and hath danced with the young men and maidens until the crowing of the cock, and she returneth home fatigued, jaded, and spiritless, thou mayest then look upon her boldly; nay, farther, even speak to her if such is thy desire-but remember that thou neither lookest upon her or speakest to her after noon-day, for by this time shall she be fully recovered.

Let not these things which have been written fall to the ground, for he who inscribeth this had a cousin once, and she was surpassing beautiful, and her eyes were exceeding large and mild and lustrous, and he who speaketh to thee could read that which was written within them, even as the prophet of old did read the strange characters upon the walls within the banquet hall of Belshazzar the king; and he was fain to seat himself beside her, for her voice was soft and low, and her words were many and good, for she could discourse most winningly, and he would linger and listen, even as one that is rapt in woven sounds of sweet music-for verily there is magic in the voice of a cousin, and in her gaze; therefore do thou avoid them.

Now it came to pass that he was wont to make pleasant journeys into the country round about, and it often chanced, although he wist not how, that when he looked around, lo! his cousin was beside him, and she would lean upon his arm as if from very weariness, for she leaned heavily, so that he would look down upon her, fearing she might be sick, for cousins are often sick, although they know not why; then would the

light of her eyes shine upon his, and he would feel a strange feeling creep over him, and his pulse would throb wildly as the pulse of one having a fever, though he spake nothing, but passed on. Now it happened on the third day of the week, and in the sixth month, which is called June, having wandered far, they seated themselves upon the bank beneath a tree that cast its shadow abroad-for it was very large-and he held the little hand of his cousin within his own, although it trembled exceedingly, and her head leaned against his arm confidinglyfor was she not his cousin?-and he considered within himself and said, "Verily my cousin is most comely, and of exceeding great goodness, what if I take her to wife? it shall be so"-and as he communed within himself thus, she looked up into his eyes and said, "Cousin."

And he answered and said, "Lo! here am I." Then spake she not again, but cast her eyes down, and played with the tassel that girded her waist; after a little while she looked up again and repeated

"Cousin."

And he replied "Speak, I hear." Then spake she nothing more, but played with the tassel of the girdle that was around her waist more vehemently; then did she cast her bright eyes upon him for the third time, and whispered softly, "What if I were in love?"

And the pulses of his heart beat more rapidly as he looked down and replied, "I should rejoice with an exceeding great gladness."

"Shouldst thou?" said she, and she laid her white hand upon his shoulder, and glanced furtively upon him from beneath her half furled eyelids—and as he drew himself closer toward her there was silence.

Then did she again say, "Cousin." And he replied, "I listen." But she spake not again at that time, for the rich colour came and went, upon her cheeks, while she appeared struggling to reveal something, but could not. And he drew nearer and placed his arm around her for was she not his cousin?-and said, "What wouldst thou?"

But she was busily employed in pulling to pieces the tassel of silk, and answered not a word; so he thought within himself, "my cousin loveth me, surely I will take her to wife;" and he a-hem'd thrice that he might speak the

It

WHAT a curious and powerful principle is association! I have spent many an hour in trying to account for the operation of this singular influence. was always a waste of time: yet an effect so pleasing, and also at times so keenly painful, cannot but provoke reflection and invite examination into its causes. With myself, sound is the most direct and powerful association; and a song, nay, even a chord of the piano, will often revive scenes and the memory of persons which had long since passed with a temporary, I had believed an eternal, oblivion. The song, it is true, may have been sung by the loved and the distant: but the chord-a simple harmony (or a dissonance, if you please) may equally recall scenes of the past, incidents and their attendant circumstances most remote. Yet that chord may have been struck a thousand times in our hearing without re-producing those scenes before the imagination. The merriest notes of the voice or of the guitar may, in a moment, conjure up long-forgotten sorrow, and cause to bleed afresh wounds of the heart that time had nearly healed. The tolling of a bell for a funeral may array before us the blithest and the happiest scenes of our childhood. The most insignificant object, the most trivial remark-less than these, an accidental sound-may revive in our memory a neglected promise or an uncancelled obligation, which nought but the agency of this singular principle could have rescued from eternal oblivion. Who shall explain these minute and mysterious operations of the mind? Who, indeed, will be so foolish as to

attempt it? Such is the melancholy nature of my experience, that there is scarcely an object, a tone of the nightwind, the fragrance of a flower, the melody of an instrument or a voice, which is not, in my mind, associated with sorrow and suffering. Who shall persuade me that he is to be envied whom nature has formed with these thousand sensitive surfaces exposed to the rough contact of adversity? Who shall say that he who is driven to employ all the powers of his mind to disguise the intensity of his feelings, is to be envied? and his lot preferred to that of the callous and the phlegmatic man who hears of suffering without a sympathetic tear, of crime without a shudder, of the loss of friends and kindred without emotion?

I had just returned home after an absence of two years, which I had passed on the continent of Europe. I had made the tour with the hope of procuring relief from a melancholy, which repeated bereavement and disappointments had rendered a fixed habit of mind. This object had been in some measure answered, yet the first greetings with friends being over, and the excitement of a return home having subsided, I succumbed again under the powerful reaction produced by the now quiet contemplation of familiar objects and faces, almost every one of which was inseparably associated with sad passages of my life. In a sort of desperation, yet in a frame of mind which rather courts than shuns melancholy, I determined to undertake a short journey. I had travelled all day with no more definite object than to fly from my own thoughts, and was less sensible of physical than of mental exhaustion, as the stage-coach rolled up to the taverndoor of the village of N. I stepped out as the driver announced the name of the village and startled me from my sad reverie: for I had not noticed that the stage had stopped. As I put my foot upon the steps of the tavern the village clock struck nine; feeling somewhat tired, and wishing to be alone, I called for my room and retired-but not to sleep. From my bed I could see the faint glimmer of the lights in a pretty, but modest house. It was, indeed, the village of N-, and that house the birthplace (was it still the abode ?) of Gertrude Campbell. My restless thoughts re-told the story of my acquaintance with this bright, pure, trusting creature; they carried me back to my brother's house,

and to the bright autumn afternoon, eight years ago, when a troop of gay and happy girls came jumping and laughing by-strangers as much to care as to affectation. As they passed along I could not help distinguishing from the rest a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl. I never saw native dignity and loveliness so combined, with an absolute unconsciousness of their possession, as in the person of this fairy maiden. Her figure was slight, yet of critical symmetry, and her step had a suppleness and grace which seemed to warrant a doubt whether she indeed touched the earth as she skimmed along ; for, as the butterfly in his descent upon a flower, her tiny foot left no impression, and scarcely shook the dew from the grass! A glance at the lovely group was sufficient to show to the most careless observer, that this angelic being was the adored of her companions, as well as their pride. Her face was sunny with smiles; yet a nearer view of those exquisite eyes betrayed a never-absent moisture, which it required only a momentary excitement, whether of pleasure or pain, to transform into a tear. It was ever there, like the drop of water in the diamond, not to sully, but to enhance its brilliancy. Her laugh was not less joyous than that of her companions, yet perhaps less frequent and less boisterous. An acquaintance with the gentle creature subsequently enabled me to distinguish these interesting peculiarities, for, at the time to which I allude, her gracefulness and beauty alone interested me in her. I had not time to observe more, for she flitted by like a bright vision, or a tropical meteor, and the melody of her clear voice died upon the ear like the retiring music of the spheres, and left me in silent admiration, not unmixed with sadness-for experience had told me how little congeniality there is in this sorrowful world with a spirit such as hers appeared to be. My observations were made unseen by the little party; but so strongly was my interest piqued to know more of the beautiful creature, that I determined to waylay them on their return, for I knew they must again pass the house to reach the village. On what pretext could I speak to them? I was perplexed for a moment; in the next I had bethought me of the offering of a bouquet, never an unacceptable gift to the young and joyous, who have breathed from infancy the pure air of the country and the fragrance of flowers. I ran into

the garden with an eagerness that astonished myself, and in a few moments had arranged a beautiful nosegay. I dipped it, all fresh as it was, into cold water from the well, and ran quickly into the road, fearing that if I walked, my courage would forsake me. They were already in sight as I emerged from the orchard. They perceived me, or rather, the bouquet, as I approached and with that modesty which refinement imparts, even to children, being in the presence of a stranger, they checked their mirth. I touched my hat, and, with a "How do you do, young ladies?" stopped immediately in front of them. My flowers were a sufficient explanation of my errand, and to their innocent minds, whose perceptions were not yet distorted by fashionable forms and city prejudices, the simple offering was an adequate excuse for my unceremonious self-introduction. They were six in number: Gertrude Campbell (for the lovely girl described was she) held her hat by the strings in her hand, and her hair flowed wildly about her shoulders. How transcendently beautiful she was at that moment, as (having stopped from a sense of politeness, her eyes cast down and her cheek slightly suffused) she listened to my salutation! It was a novel situation to her, and her expression seemed made up of timidity, curiosity and pleasure, produced by the sight of the flowers. I mustered courage and addressed the little party :-"Young ladies, here are some flowers which I have just collected from my brother's garden and put carelessly together. I must think they would be prettier for your more tasteful arrangement of them. I am sorry I have not more than one bouquet to offer you: will you, however, accept it as it is?" I had scarcely concluded ere five of the little ones cried out simultaneously, "Oh, give it to Gertrude, sir ;" and a dark-haired, brighteyed little girl, whose name I afterwards learned to be Kitty L., stepped modestly forward and received it with a very pretty "We thank you, sir," and presented it to the half-resisting and lovely queen of the group. She blushed the deepest crimson as she took it from her companion, whom she kissed affectionately, and curtesying most gracefully, thanked me with a voice which was perfectly musical. I can never forget the tones of that voice. Would that I could remember only those of its tones which then so eloquently conveyed the happiness and buoyancy of the heart!

The foregoing scene and the reflections it suggested, occupied much less time than I have taken to record them. I turned, as they resumed their march, and accompanied them toward the village, for they already knew who I was, by my mention of my brother. I had only arrived in N- the day previous-but he resided there, and they were all acquainted with him, and all loved him— for to know him was to love him!

But to resume. Gertrude was at this time fifteen. Her parents were of the aristocracy of the village-that is, they were not less respected than respectable; and if they, in some degree, kept aloof from the general society of the villagers, it was less the effect of any reprehensible pride, than a voluntary concession to them on the part of the other inhabitants, who, having been less accustomed to the grand monde, could not, in their presence, enjoy that entire ease and self-possession so necessary to the comfort of those bred and habituated to the simple habits of a village. It was, however, the constant effort of Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, on their first coming to reside in N to make these disparities disappear. They were familiar and easy in their address, but never succeeded in establishing a footing of entire and easy equality between the villagers and themselves. Their children, however, were soon universally beloved and looked up to; and Gertrude was cherished and at home in every house in the village. My brother was one of the privilégiés, and was on an intimate footing in the family. He was of a taciturn character, rarely visited at all, and so seldom even at the Campbells' as never to be mistaken for a suitor by the family, or reputed as such by even the gossips of the village. Gertrude was the youngest of three sisters: her father had been dead two years at the period at which my story opens. The second day after my first meeting with Gertrude, my brother proposed to me to pass the evening at the Campbells': I joyfully assented. We found the family collected, and beside their number a young man of a strikingly handsome person and features. I set him down at once as a Spaniard. I could not but acknowledge to myself that I had at once conceived a prejudice against him. When I entered he was in earnest conversation with Gertrude. had but time to observe, ere she rose to receive us, that her manner was perfectly confiding and his enthusiastic. Could one converse with such a being without

I

enthusiasm ? I was presented in form to the different members of the family. The address, the premier abord of Mrs. Campbell, was eminently gracious and pleasing. The most striking feature of Matilda's (the eldest) was refinement ; of Eliza's, (the second sister.) gentleness; and of Gertrude's, childish purity and loveliness. The conversation soon became general, and I left the house at nine o'clock, most agreeably impressed with my visit, and delighting in the prospect of a more intimate acquaintance with so refined and agreeable a family.

I had intended to pay my brother but a short visit. A feeling, over which I had no control and could not even explain to myself, forbade my departure, and I lingered and lingered. (I was not in love, gentle reader!) Six weeks passed and I was still in N, and visiting, without restraint, at Mrs. C.'s. With the young man whom I had met the first evening at her house, I had become well acquainted. (I shall call him Henry Maitland, for many of the incidents of my story being true, actual names and places are of necessity suppressed.) Maitland was the only son of a wealthy Cuba planter. His father had sent him to England at an early age, that he might enjoy the advantages of a good education, without being exposed to the temptations and habits peculiar to the West India Islands. There was an academy of high literary and moral reputation at N

and to this Mr. Maitland was strongly recommended. Having satisfied himself of the advantages of the institution and the society of the village, he unhesitatingly sent his son Henry with a letter to the principal of the school, (a most upright and faithful servant of his great Master, and a man of high literary attainments,) earnestly requesting him to watch over the morals of his son, to inspire him with correct tastes, and, of all things, to assist him in the choice of his acquaintances. Shortly after Henry's arrival he was introduced by his worthy teacher to the Campbells, with the simple remark-"I am going to present you to a perfectly virtuous and happy family." Maitland had been a little more than two months in the school at the date of my story, but long enough, as I have said, to establish himself as a friend and constant visiter in the family. His manners were prepossessing in a high degree. His address was eminently that of a gentleman, and his bearing toward his elders (that infallible test) bespoke a gentle

education and gentle influences. But there was that in the expression of his quick, dark eye, which spoke of passion. In my reading here, I felt a moral certainty that I could not be mistaken; and the deep interest already inspired in my breast by the lovely being who, to say the least, had captivated his fancy, led me to watch him closely. I had occasionally heard rumours of a tendency in him to dissipated habits; and sundry quiet insinuations, which went to confirm the prejudice I had conceived against him, from time to time reached my ear; and the more readily to accomplish what I had gradually taught myself to believe a sacred duty, namely, the protection of this innocent creature, I cultivated the acquaintance of Maitland; and, without striving to secure his personal attachment, or compromising myself by a pro. fession of a confidence which duty might tempt me to betray, I sought his respect: once persuaded that he saw in me no rival, I easily obtained it, and he soon became frank and friendly (to all appearance, at least). I did not forget that it was as her friend that I was cultivating this intimacy, and seized every opportunity to disparage those tastes and pursuits into which I feared he was falling.

About two months after my first introduction to the Campbells, I called one evening at the principal hotel of the village, in the expectation of finding a friend who was to pass through it about that time. There being no one in the parlour, I sat down in a chair near the open window, and took up a newspaper. My back was toward the window, near which was an arbour. My attention was suddenly arrested by the voice of Maitland in earnest conversation with some one. He was sitting on the arbour bench.

As I sat I could not see him; but his voice, though suppressed, reached my ear with startling distinctness; it was deep beyond his years-and now, it was sunk to a whisper which betrayed uncommon interest in his subject and strong agitation. My eyes remained fixed upon a paper I held in my handthe words that first met my ear, were— "never! if it is in my power to prevent it!" I felt unpleasantly, for I was a listener, though at that moment an involuntary one, yet I did not possess the physical power to leave my place-an indefinable sentiment (heaven knows, it was no idle curiosity) retained me: the struggle was powerful, yet short, for the next sentence bade me remain.

"She